The Baronet was justly proud of his beautiful home, and when, late that night, after the retiring of the guests, we were smoking in the library, he listened with evident pleasure to my congratulations on its perfect preservation unspoiled from the middle ages. "You must see the picture-gallery to-morrow," he said. "That is the real gem of the place. But as you take such an interest in the Abbey and its antiquities, this book may interest you." He found a key and unlocked a bookcase. "It is a complete history of the Abbey from its foundation to the present time. It has never been published. My brother had it drawn up by a first-rate antiquary. I haven't had time to read it properly yet. Why, how's this? The book is gone." "Some other guest who takes the same interest in the Abbey that I do," I suggested, "has borrowed the book and forgotten to return it." "Impossible," Sir Hugh replied. "This bookcase is kept locked, and I always carry the key." "Was that the only copy of the book?" my uncle asked. "The only copy. It was in manuscript, but the leaves were bound like an ordinary book. If the book be gone the loss is irreparable." "When did you see it last?" "About a month ago, I should say. Its usual place is there, third from the end on the top shelf. Whoever took it away did not wish its removal to be noticed, for he----" "Or she," I murmured, thinking of Florrie's enthusiasm over the Abbey. "Or she has filled up the gap with a book identical in colour and binding, so that I thought at first it was the very book. _Athanasii Opera_," he muttered contemptuously, scanning the title of the substituted volume. "Confound Athanasius." "With all my heart, and his creed too," said my uncle cheerfully. "But I have no doubt the other, more valuable, book will turn up all right soon." "I sincerely hope it will," Sir Hugh replied, scrutinising every part of the bookcase as if he thought the volume were deliberately hiding from him. "At any rate, it isn't here now," and giving up the search in disgust he walked to the fireplace and flung himself into a chair, looking exceedingly annoyed. "It looks like a case of theft, but I can't for the life of me see why a thief should choose that particular book. He would only give himself away if he tried to make money by selling it. No one in the Abbey would have taken it; people don't pick locks to get what they have only to ask for, and every one here knows I have no objection to lending my books." And for some time he smoked in moody silence, uninterrupted by any remark from us. "By the way," he said presently, "I shall shortly have the pleasure of introducing you to a genius. I'm waiting up for him now. He is coming by the last train." "Who is the genius?" my uncle inquired with a smile. "That Italian artist whose picture 'The Fall of Cæsar' made such a sensation in Paris last spring." I was so surprised that I knocked over a branched candlestick by my side and nearly set the tablecloth on fire.